


Amid the Sea

by lacat123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Boats and Ships, Broken Bones, Castiel Loves Books, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Dean Winchester Has Dyslexia, Drowning, Fluff and Angst, Ghost Stories, Historical Accuracy, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Lighthouses, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Tags Contain Spoilers, haunted, hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 23:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18041243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacat123/pseuds/lacat123
Summary: Dean Winchester is a ship hand, traveling across the ocean on a boat bound for England. He lives for adventure that he just couldn’t get back home. But when a storm threatens everything, can he survive his maiden voyage?One-shot with a haunted lighthouse, a man who needs to explore, and a ‘ghost’ longing for a friend (or maybe something more).





	Amid the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! This is just a little one-shot I wrote over the past few days. It is meant to be set in the early 1800s, but the time period is never specified. Pre-slash Dean/Cas mostly. I really hope everyone likes this!

It had taken him by surprise. Hell, it'd taken them all by surprise. They'd heard the stories of course: men lost forever to the deep depths and never heard of again. Pieces of rigging washing up on the shoreline. But no one really expected that to be them. No one thought that such a tragedy would befall them. 

Yet, here he was, frantically clinging to the ropes of the main mast. Water was splashing over the sides of the hull, pooling around his feet and soaking through his shoes. People focus on the weirdest things when everything went to shit. It seemed for him, it was his socks getting wet. Although by now, the water was to his mid-calf. His pants were also clinging to his shins, making him wish he could reach down and itch them. But letting go of the rope would mean death, and he'd really prefer not to die here today. 

Another wave bashed into them, sending salty spray into his face and tilting the ship a bit farther to the left. It was already leaning precariously, tottering as though it was a top spinning just on the edge of a table. The damp deck made him slip, and he could feel one of his knuckles pop with the extra strain he was putting on his hands. 

There shouldn't have been a storm today. The skies had been clear and blue, barely a cloud in sight. The sea, calm and cool, as though for once she decided to welcome their passage versus merely allow it. But just past noon, the heavens had darkened till they were an angry grey, looming and threatening above them. Then the rain had started. And like the unpredictable thing she was, the sea had turned against them. 

And here he was, clinging for dear life as the others struggled to right the ship. Force her by the reins to stand up tall and plow on-wards through the water. If they did manage to get out alive, they would call him a coward. They're right, he supposes. He is a coward. But if admitting and showing his fear meant seeing Sammy or Jess or their daughter again, he would let them throw rotten tomatoes and stick him in the stocks all they want. 

They'd only been traveling for a few days. Just his luck, it seems. A major storm on his maiden voyage. Within the first week. It was as though God had turned against him. He'd been reluctant at first to accept the post at all. He was perfectly happy being a land-lubber, thank you very much. But the call of the sea, the thrill of leaving their country and seeing another part of the world, it called to him. There was also the fact that it paid decently. And the practically endless supply of beer. He'd taken full advantage of that the past few days. 

He was pretty old to get into the trade. Just on the fringe of thirty, still trying to pretend that the delicate wrinkles crossing his face were shadows cast by the light. And that little grey hair there was not a product of age, but the stress of living with a constantly crying two year old. And, boy, that would be a reason for why anyone would board a ship bound to England. He wasn't even sure they wouldn't be able to hear little Rose all the way across the pond. How Sam managed to get anything done was a miracle. 

Another wave pounded into the starboard side, making the wooden boards creak ominously. The crashing nearly drowned out the cries from men all around him, frantically calling out orders. The force of the hit tipped them further over, until he lost his footing. His hands stayed white-knuckled around the rope, burns forming on his palms as they continued falling further and further over the edge. He was basically lying down on the deck, water sloshing past his head until it hit the opposite side and went overboard. Luckily, he hadn't seen any men go with it yet. 

Then came that moment. Where you know everything is lost and the top has started just falling, falling, falling over the edge till it hits the ground and breaks apart. The hull touched the water, and he was nearly vertical now, legs dangling over the black water as the entire ship tilted. The screams picked up a notch, turning from panicked orders to full out terror. And it was justified. All those who hadn't managed to grab onto something after the last barrage were dunked under. He could barely make out their bodies in the sea as she pulled them deeper and deeper into her depths. 

He stayed like that for a minute, feeling like eternity. Arms straining, his shoulder aching and pulling and possibly dislocating under the strain his muscled frame put on them. His hands were ripped open now, the coarse fibers from the rope shredding away his skin like nothing as he had skidded down its length. There were still screams, but slowly they were growing quieter. Those who remained on the ship in these last few seconds knew. Knew they were all goners, destined to be buried in a watery grave. Yells turned to whimpers turned to whispers turned to prayers as water rushed over the side, dragging them down faster. 

It swirled around his feet, and he could feel it soak into his shoes through the leather's pores. It started to pool inside the boots, all disgusting and damp and moist. Just one of those everyday awful feelings he totally should not be focusing on now. The water had managed to reach back this time, drenching his multiple layers until it left him shivering and shaking like a leaf in the wind, feeling his hands go numb even as they struggled to hold onto his lifeline, literally. 

He had a few seconds warning before it happened. His stomach dropped, and he nearly gagged at the suddenness of it. There was this feeling of vertigo, as he clung desperately, suspended over thin air with nothing but endless seas to cushion his fall. Its currents waiting like sirens to grab him with bony fingers and pull him down until his lungs filled with water and his cells with salt. His hold was starting to slip, too much burning-yet-barely-there pain running across his shoulder blades and into his arms. It hardly mattered anyway, though. Because within a few moments, the deck was above his head, pushing every last survivor into the sea. 

His hand let go of the rope. He knew because he was suddenly floundering, desperately treading water with the hopes that perhaps, just maybe, he can stay alive. But there was wood above him even as he swam upwards, trapping him below the surface. It didn't take long for his lungs to begin crying out, screaming that he needed air. Air and not this all consuming blackness that was currently around him. He kicked furiously with his legs as he pushed up, but the several tons of the ship wouldn't move or budge. He was no more than an ant trying to push a horse. 

Dark spots were dancing around his vision. Encroaching closer and closer to the center until he was peering through a long tunnel under the murky water. He felt light headed, and stopped. The wood deck was still above him, but was that up, or down? Could he really be swimming deeper and deeper towards the sea bed? Consciousness was starting to escape him, fleeing from his clutches as he pushed frantically against the planks. 

It wouldn't give way. He knew it wouldn't. He gazed around, eyes hooded, trying to find anything else. Anything that's possible to hold on to and pray and hope and cry and just wait this entire thing out until tomorrow comes and everything will be alright. 

He saw a small plank of wood. It looked like a supply box, made of six wooden pallets sturdy enough to hold pounds and pounds of food stuffs. It must have broken, so one pallet was floating alone under the water, trapped as he was beneath the ship. He began to swim towards it, putting the last of his waning strength into moving his arms and legs. He was exhausted, limbs feeling like solid blocks of lead. Lungs feeling as though they were steeped in fire as he pushed himself further and further towards the wood. 

And, finally, his fingers grasped one splintering plank, barely able to feel the sparks of pain through the numb. He could have screamed for joy, if only he had air. There was something to hold onto. Something that gave him hope that shouldn't be possible. He clung as tight as he could, the black encroaching evermore on his vision. 

There was a flaw with his plan, he realized with a start. Once unconscious, even if they managed to escape from under the deck, he wouldn't be able to hold on. Taking a deep breath of courage, he took his right hand off the wood, before shoving his hand between two of the planks to his wrists. It hurt. He could feel the bone snap, then crunch as it was forced into the tiny space. Every small movement grated the shards against each other, something he could practically hear. The agony was absolute, and he couldn't help the short cry he gave. 

As his mouth opened, a torrent of seawater flooded in, as though it had just been waiting for an ample opportunity to enter. It rushed down his throat, burning along the sensitive skin. It reached his lungs, filling them and drowning him. The spots no longer just floated around his peripheral, but cascaded down in front of him as a solid sheet of black. He was left blind and deaf, clinging to the broken shard of wood, his only tether left to reality. But the fire ignited in his lungs became too much, and at long last he was carried far away from anything real. 

He drifted through his memories, languidly. One of him and Sam playing with one of Dad's old medals, pinning onto their breasts and pretending they were generals who'd just defeated the British. The first time he kissed a girl, scrawny thing who's name he never knew. Her lips were soft and supple, warm as though they were bathed in sunshine. Then the first time he'd kissed a boy, hidden deep inside an old closet. An experiment, he'd thought. One he'd liked, despite how wrong it was. Then there was Sam again, this time leaving for college. First person to get a degree in their family, it was a huge honor. And of course that was where he met Jess, the daughter of a professor. And the first time he'd seen Rose, new to the world, the tiniest bit of blush staining her little cheeks. 

He knew only moments had passed, but it seemed like a millennia of just floating among the memories, reliving bits and pieces of his life again and again. They got faded, though. Losing color. Soon Rose's blush was a dull grey, Adam's lips no longer dusty rose. Dad's medal no longer shined when it hit the lamp light. It went on until the people became indecipherable from each other. Simply shapes that floated aimlessly across the horizon like ghosts. 

Then that faded too, until he was only left with a world of grey and black, before he was finally, truly, lost to everything. 

___________________________

There was light. Which was odd. It was bright, too bright, even against his closed lids. The sun was beating hot on his back. He could smell the ocean, salty and beautiful. Water swirled around his legs, but gently. No longer menacing as it had been. As though the sea was apologizing for everything she'd done to him. 

Before he could take in another thing, he flopped over, coughing up water and what had to be at least one vital organ. It was rough against his already injured throat, and he tasted a bit of copper on his tongue. He spat out the last of the water that his body seemed ready to give up at the moment, and laid back down as he had been. Now he felt sand against his face. Soft grains warmed by the day. Comforting. He wanted nothing more than to rest, but knew he couldn't. There were so many things he had to do, much better than lying on a beach. 

He opened his eyes, blinking the last of the sand from his lashes. His vision swam for a few moments before he blinked enough times to clear it. The sandy shoal stretched across the shore as far as he could see to the left, until it hit a rocky outcropping. The limestone stood out over the now calm seas, a monument he'd heard spoken about. Before they'd left the mainland, stories had been told after drinking too much rum. About this island without a name, containing nothing but sand, rock, and a single lighthouse. No one lived here. As far as they knew, no supply ships came. But still the lighthouse ran. Most claim it's haunted by the ghost of the last operator, who died after a horrendous storm years ago. Now everyone just tells stories in the dead of night about the spirits that run the lamp. 

A shiver went through him involuntarily. It's not that he actually believed in ghost stories, but still. If they were right and no one brought any supplies here, he could be stranded. He looked to the other side, and saw it. The tall structure stood on another outcropping of rock, standing tall over the blue. It was worn-down, white paint having chipped and washed away through the countless storms it must have weathered since it was built. 

He took a deep breath, than moved to get up. He managed to kneel, half in the water sloshing onto the shore, soaking through his already crusty pants. But when he went to stand, he realized that his wrist was still trapped between the slats of the pallet. An experimental tug sent a lance arching through his arm and into his shoulder, causing him to bite down in pain. The skin was swollen and bruised, bone scraping horribly against bone. 

With his other hand, he carefully undid the cotton belt that hung, wet, from his hips. He shoved the fabric deep into his mouth, gagging at the overtly salty and ocean-y taste that pervaded it. Biting down hard, he counted in his head before ripping his arm back as fast as he could. Even with the makeshift gag, his scream still resounded across the beach. His entire right side felt like it was on fire, but, taking another few breaths, he managed to spit out the belt and bring his arm carefully to his chest. 

He sat there a few minutes, trying to breathe through the agony and get back his bearings. He knew he should use the pallet as a splint, his belt to tie it together, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to do all that without his right arm. 

Light was fading fast, the sun already dipping closer and closer towards the horizon. It was resting just above the waves across the sea, waiting until it could finally rest and let night rule. Slowly, he stood, blinking rapidly to try and dissolve the dizziness that hit him. It was late for them to be traveling, about mid-November. The night would be cold, especially wet like this. Even with the warmer than normal weather, how he'd managed to avoid frost bite last night was beyond him. He needed shelter, out of the wind, for this night. And the lighthouse would work. 

He tried to ignore the uneasy pit in his stomach at the thought of going there. It was not haunted. Ghosts aren't real, so how would one live there? He forced his mind to think somewhat rationally as he began to walk carefully towards the once-white building. 

By the time he was at the outcropping, night had descended fully. Each of his breaths came out in a cloud of white, and small shivers racked his body. His teeth were chattering a bit. He reached a shaking hand out to pull open the door. It had been painted red, but now the paint had fully peeled off, leaving only a blood-dipped wood in it's place. It was difficult to open, as though it had been many years since last used. It squeaked horribly, hinges groaning against the sudden use. 

The hallway beyond was dark, but there was just enough light from the outside to make out a spiral staircase reaching up. He didn't have to climb it, but there was something calling to him. The same thing that'd made him sign up to board that ship and want to travel across the ocean. So he walked tentatively to the first step, peering up. The shadows at the top were too absolute to make out what came beyond, as though it was just bringing him to darkness. He stepped, lightly at first, but once he was certain it would hold him, fully onto the step. It creaked a bit, but otherwise seemed stable enough. 

He rested his good hand on the railing, before taking another. Soon he was high above the ground, and the light grew dimmer and dimmer. He relied solely on his hand upon the rail and the even spacing of the stairs to know where to step next. 

He went to climb the next, but instead of air, his foot hit something. It must be a door, at the top of the staircase. Taking his hand off the railing, he ran it over the wood until he felt a knob. So it was a door. This must be the room where the light came from, to shine across the waves until a ship could see it. It was still early, so he wasn't surprised that no light shown from the crack under the door. He turned the knob, carefully easing it open. No creaks came this time, as though this door was well oiled and used. Which was probably worse. But it was also safe from the elements, so that could be why too. 

The windows allowed more light in, streaming from the moon. It highlighted the multi-sided glass which stood in the center. The lens, so light could reflect off it. A lantern was hanging, unlit, in the center. 

After looking around the room carefully for a few moments, he noticed another source of light. A bit streamed from under another door, one he assumed was meant for storage, or for the operator to sleep in when this was manned. He walked slowly over to that one, before opening it. 

He took in the little lantern hanging from the ceiling, books strewn across the room, resting on nearly every unused surface. Bed pushed into one corner. And the figure resting upon it. He, it, whatever it was, stood, looking at him with wide eyes. Wide, blue, eyes, bluer than anything he'd seen. He, he was going with, stood. His expression was nearly unreadable, beyond the undertone of fear that caused his brow to knit and lips to part. 

They were frozen, just staring at one another with confusion and disbelief, as though neither expected there to actually be another living soul on this island. Which, he guessed, neither of them had. 

A wave of dizziness punched through him, stronger than any of the others before. Even as the adrenaline coursed through him, trying to keep him alert, a wave of darkness pushed him under. He tried to reach out a hand and steady himself on the opposite wall, but came up short and crumpled to the ground. His arm let out another shock of pain, and he wasn't able to bite back the groan he let out in time. He vaguely felt a hand on his shoulder, arms lifting him, but he surrendered to the idea of a few hours without pain. 

___________________

It was warm. That was the first thing he really felt. A blanket that was lying across his chest, scratchy but still comforting. The slight weight felt good as his chest rose and fell with every breath. So he was still alive. That much was alright. A mattress was also under him, more comfortable than any he'd laid in in the past few years. A bed, he's in a bed. 

He opened his eyes slowly, taking in the room around him. It was bathed in glowing light, flickering shadows playing off the walls. He could just make out the books that scattered the floor, barely reached by the lantern's light. And then everything hit him: the ship, the island. The ghost. 

In hindsight, sitting up that quickly was probably a bad idea. Another bout of dizziness washed through him, and he leaned against the wall for support. It was cool against his head, and he sighed softly. Everything ached. His arms, shoulders. And his wrist burned, as though someone had poured acid and the skin was melting away. Glancing down, he saw a thick bandage around it, holding two sticks securely in place. A split, someone had made him a splint. 

He looked around him again, mostly for the ghost. It was empty as far as he could tell, save himself, the bed, and the books. He couldn't read the titles, but each one looked a bit different. 

He wished suddenly that he had a weapon. All evidence said that the man wasn't trying to hurt him, but you could never be too careful. In his life, it's never good to trust strangers. Too often you end up with a knife through your back. 

Leaning away from the wall, he managed to sit up by himself, before attempting to stand. The world tilted wildly, but he managed to stay on his feet and took an unsteady step forward. The wood creaked loudly under him, and he winced. So much for going unheard.

Before he could take another step, the door leading into the bedroom opened. In walked the thing he'd seen before, with those blue eyes and what he know realized was strikingly dark hair. Under different circumstances, he might have even said the guy was beautiful. 

The blue eyes were blown a bit wide in surprise, and they once again just stood there, staring. Dean tried to take another step forward, but the floor rocked as though he was back on the ship, and he swayed dangerously. The man was there before he could fall, wrapping a careful arm around his waist and under his shoulder, guiding him back to the bed. He sat gratefully, before leaning away from the stranger. 

"Who're you" He asked, his voice rough and grating against his throat. It hurt, and he sounded horrible, but he needed answers. The man kept staring at him for a few more moments, before answering. 

"My name is Castiel. I run the lighthouse." The response was laced with an accent, barely there and unidentifiable. His voice was low and deep, which somehow fit him.

"How... how did I-" He stopped, looking down at his hand. He remembered the ship, the pallet he'd used as a life raft. The agonizing walk to the lighthouse. But none of this made sense. His crew mates hadn't been lying. Or, at least, he was pretty sure. No stops were made to the island, no food or supplies delivered here. There's no way a person could survive by themselves. The entire area was just rocks and sand. 

"You showed up at the door. Your wrist was broken and beginning to show the signs of infection. I cleaned and set it, although the bandages do have to be changed again." The man, Castiel, relayed all this information calmly, his tone barely wavering. It was a little weird to watch, as though he wasn't used to talking to people. Although he did live on an abandoned, still-possibly-haunted lighthouse that got no visitors.

"Yeah, uh, thanks for that." He said quietly, a blush creeping up his cheeks. Damn, why did the guy have to be nice and hot and just out of his reach enough to make him want him?

“It was no issue. I don’t get many visitors.” Something about the man’s tone was sad, as though he didn’t like that fact. It made his own heart ache a bit. “You look as though you have been in a shipwreck. Are there any more crew members that need assistance?” 

He shook his head, his companions screams bouncing around in his head. Everyone would have been trapped when the boat capsized. It was pure luck that even he was standing here. 

Castiel regarded him for another few moments, before walking over to another side of the room. A little chest was on the floor, which he opened. From his angle, Dean could just make out the inside, full of preserved food and supplies. The ghost-man pulled out one bag, before gesturing back to the bed. 

“Your bandages need to be changed, to avoid the infection coming back. Your fever broke only a few hours ago and we have to be careful it doesn’t come back.” He looked at the man for another second, before sitting down on the bed. It creaked and groaned, but seemed relatively sturdy. 

Castiel opened the bag, laying out a roll of gauze and some liquid in a bottle on the bed beside him. He then gently grabbed his wrist, and Dean did everything he could to hide his wince. It still really fucking hurt, throbbing that accelerated into a stabbing pain whenever it moved. He carefully unwrapped the outer layer of gauze, before taking the sticks out and putting them next to the other supplies. 

“So,” He began, looking at the man’s face, pinched a bit in concentration. “What’re you doing here, on this island alone? This doesn’t exactly seem like a one man job.” Or one ghost job, he thought. 

Castiel spared him a quick glance, before looking back towards his wrist. “My father worked here, before the war. I grew up helping him with the lamps, cleaning the glass. One day, when I was twelve, one of the ships came with supplies. He left with them.” His voice was laced with a bit of acid. “So I just kept running the light here, by myself. It’s necessary work.” 

The bandage came fully off his hand, and he could see the bruises that littered it’s surface. All in all, though, it didn’t look too bad. Better than when Sam had broke his all those years ago. But the man’s words sent a bit of cold through his heart, so lonely and longing in a way that made him just want to stay and talk with the guy. 

“Why don’t the supply ships come anymore? No one even knows you’re here. I was half expecting to be attacked by a vengeful ghost.” He tried to make a bit of light, but Castiel just kept wrapping his wrist. 

“I have my own, a dingy in the back of the island. When I run out of supplies I row back to the mainland. It takes a few days, but it leaves me unbothered, in peace.” His tone contradicted his words, that heavy sense of loneliness pervading it. “What ship were you on, that wrecked? Was it bound for England?”

He nodded, glad to get off the topic of the man’s life. It was just so sad, being alone to the point where everyone thinks you’re an honest-to-god ghost. “The Ocean’s Beauty, going on a steady course to Hastings. At least, that’s what I was told. And my name’s Dean, by the way.” 

The man nodded slightly, before tying the last knot in the bandage. “Good to meet you, Dean. You should stay here for a few days until your arm is healed more, but then I’ll bring you out on the dingy to the mainland.” 

Castiel started to pack away all the medical supplies, shoving it back in the bag before throwing that into the chest. It all seemed neat and orderly, so contrary to the books strewn about the room. 

“I assume you like to read?” He said, gesturing towards the floor. The man let out a tiny laugh, and his heart warmed just a bit, fluttering around in his chest. 

“Books are a way to experience other worlds, other people. It’s a doorway into a whole other land. I read in most spare moments I have, which is a lot.” His eyes lit up talking, voice tinged with passion. So the guy really liked to read. Good to know. “Feel free to look at anything you want. I have too many to even know what to do with.” 

A small blush started creeping up his neck, shame coloring his cheeks. “I... I can’t read.” He said quietly, looking down at his hands. It wasn’t uncommon, where he’d grown up, but around people like Sammy and this man, he couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. Lesser than them.

“You are going to be here for another few days at least while you’re healing. I can teach you.” The man looked so happy, that Dean just couldn’t bear to tell him he’d tried already. Sam had tried already. 

Castiel got up, walking over towards the door, before turning. “I have to crank the gears and add more oil to the lamp. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left without a sound, beyond the door shutting behind him. 

He skimmed his hand over the cover of one book, its letters a jumble across the cover. He could make out an A and a C, but beyond that nothing. He just couldn’t remember the names of the letters, their sounds, much less string them into complete words.

But the man seemed to want to try, and he was sure the guy wasn’t a ghost now. Maybe, just maybe, he could do something good for the next week. 

_________________

_Three months later-_

The last reaches of the sun were flooding through the small window above the bed, cascading down over them. It illuminated perfectly the book that lay in his hands. He concentrated harder on the words, forcing the letters to join and form them in his head. It was hard, and made his head hurt, but he’d managed to get through half the chapter already today, and was determined to finish it. Because he would learn how to do this. He would. 

Over the hours, the light faded slowly form the horizon until only the lamp above his head lit the page. He noticed that the light had gone, and moved off the bed into the other room. 

The large lens was in the center, panel open and ready for the lantern inside to be lit. He checked that the oil was full, before lighting a match from his pocket and holding it to the wick. The flame jumped up, and he closed the panel and the lantern inside. The light grew steadily, as he cranked the lever. 

After a few minutes he was done, the lens turning slowly and reflecting the light across the water. He glanced worriedly out the windows down, looking at the shore. Cas should be back by now. He couldn’t do repairs to the dingy in the dark. 

Just then, the door leading to the room opened, and a man stepped in. It was Cas, the tools he’d been using slung over his shoulder. He set them down next to the door, before looking towards him.

“Hello, Dean. The leak is fixed. Did you finish the chapter?” His voice was still as deep as ever, but gentle.

“I was a page away when night fell. I was just about to go back and finish.” He checked the light one last time before facing him totally. His hair was even more crazy than normal, the wind having swept it up. But beyond that he looked the same as ever. 

“We’ll have to go to the mainland tomorrow, now that the boat’s fixed. We are running low on supplies.” A tiny shot of happiness shot through him as he bought of that. That meant he’d see Sam and Jess and Rose again. It’d only been two weeks, but he was already missing him. 

He’d never forget when he’d visited Sam for the fist time after the wreck. He’d been told he was dead, the entire ship gone and never to be recovered. And then he’d just appeared, with a strange man and a broken wrist, at his door. It had taken a few minutes for him to really believe the story, but eventually he came around. 

They both walked into the bedroom, and Dean picked up the book. He really did only have one page left in the chapter, and he was going to finish it before bed. He’d taken the shift yesterday, so it was Cas’ today. The lantern was still burning over the bed, enough light to read by. 

Cas glanced over at it, before nodding. “You’re doing great, Dean. It took me much longer to learn the first time.” 

He pulled the guy towards him by an arm over his shoulder, before kissing him gently. “Well, I have the best teacher.” 

**Author's Note:**

> There it is! So this is the first historical fiction I have ever written, and while I did research many things for this, there is always the chance I messed up. Please leave kudos and review what you thought!


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